Wafts of chili, teriyaki, and curry always sifted through the air of Ko-Ri, slowly stiring amongst the waves of heat throughout the restaurant. The room was always loud—only a countertop separated the dining area from the kitchen and tables were constantly occupied—but Dr. DaHuang Pyo loved the atmosphere. The room held the right level of noise, with servers shouting orders and animated conversation balanced against aural sponges soaking the noise into the walls.
While much of Neo-Seoul had adopted the look of glass, steel, and carbon-fiber, Ko-Ri sought an earthlier style. Wood and cement were the primary materials, with ancient, cast-iron legs for their worn-down tabletops. Contrastingly, paper-thin digital menus sported a modern sleek design and the kitchen was outfitted with the latest inductive stovetops. DaHuang had been in Neo-Seoul for almost two months and been coming to Ko-Ri regularly.
DaHuang worked his way through his kimchi. He sat wearing an outfit of synthetic grayscale, contrasted by a traditional navy blazer complete with brass buttons. The outdated jacket had a single pin on the lapel: a QR code that allowed those with the Brainstorm chip implant to see the golden silhouette of a traditional dragon inlaid on the back with its tail swinging as it dangled. Occasionally, the dragon would snake around his arms and across his chest before returning to its home. The fusion of old and new, like yin and yang; such balance brought peace, his grandmother had said.
Finished with his meal, he looked to the clock his mind projected on the wall and saw that it was 13:05. His meeting with Choi was in twenty-five minutes! The executive had taken notice of DaHuang’s product and his efforts to introduce it in Korea; they wanted to negotiate a deal. DaHuang swiped his hand across the table’s sensor to pay and left the restaurant, briefcases in hand; one leather, one carbon-fiber.
Outside, skyscrapers towered above him and the streets before him led to the Hives. Drones whirred through the air alongside glass tubes snaking through the sky. Turning the corner, DaHuang’s gaze pointed the opposite direction. Tens of kilometers away, “ChoiTech” stood in thick blue atop an eighty-story monstrosity. Ready as he could be, DaHuang pressed the button on the handle of his carbon-fiber briefcase, allowing it to fold out into his hoverbike, the latest model. It cost a pretty penny, but when you found an overnight success of a startup you could afford occasional luxuries. Clipping his leather briefcase to the back of the bike, DaHuang rose to fight the city’s drone traffic as he flew towards the glowing blue letters.
The time was 15:27, according to the soft-purple gas that had arranged itself into the numbers inside wall’s glass panel. DaHuang Pyo was done with this ridiculous meeting. He could not just leave in the middle of discussion, however; one did not insult the one percent of Neo-Seoul. The economics in his home country of Japan may have been a continuous curve, but the wealth gap in Korea gave people like Choi power no one wanted to experience on the receiving end.
The upper floors served as the home of Choi Joon-ki, CEO of ChoiTech. Everyone had their own aesthetic, and anyone could achieve it easily thanks to Brainstorm’s augmented reality. But there was no AR here. Neo-Seoul’s rich couldn’t be happy with such trivial matters as self-expression; they had to bring their desires to life.
Opaque objects had digital readouts glowing as if from beneath the surface, responsive to touch. A coy-pond shaped its waterfall into twisting vines, or sometimes the hexagonal logo of ChoiTech. Simple objects such as a wooden table surface became exquisite when one saw the grain of the wood painted a picture. Once past the initial visual impression, DaHuang realized he could smell the scent of lavender, but sickeningly sweeter. It did not come in and out of his senses like a natural odor cloud would; it simply was.
More appalling to him than the ostentatious office was the meeting itself. Their correspondence up until this point had been frustratingly vague. Two years ago, DaHuang’s company had released Project Misa: an artificial intelligence playing the part of personal therapist, personified and displayed to users by the Brainstorm chip. He had intended to reshape lives with his work, but Japanese and American markets had responded to it as a toy. Waifu was the term they used. It sickened DaHuang, and he had come to Korea to see Project Misa presented as it was intended. All the help he could get was welcome.
Now that they were together, though, Choi made their desire clear; not partnership, but a buyout. Choi wanted to take DaHuang’s work away and do with it exactly what he was here to prevent. That infuriated him.
“I’m sorry,” DaHuang stated for the third time, “but I am not interested in parting with my work.”
Choi Joon-ki simply reclined his mammoth of a chair, finger idly twisting the ends of the bandana at their neck. “Please,” they replied smoothly, “be reasonable, Mr. Da—”
“Doctor,” he corrected.
“Doctor DaHuang. With the resources at my disposal, I can assure your product becomes the best it can be.”
“And I’ve assured you,” DaHuang replied, “that I believe you and I have different visions for the future of my company. And so, I must decline your generous offer.”
“Think about it,” Choi warned. “This kind of offer isn’t possible anywhere else. A lot of power resides in this city, it would be beneficial to be on the right side of it.”
DaHuang looked Choi in the eye for a long moment before standing to button his blazer, dragon’s tongue coiled around the top button. “I’m afraid it is of greater value to me to continue having a say in my work. I apologize for wasting your time.” He gave them a shallow, but lengthy bow before moving to leave. Choi simply sat there, frowning for the first time all day.
As DaHuang reached the exit, he noticed his own projected clock next to the room’s esoteric one. DaHuang called to Choi as he left. “Your clock is two minutes slow.”
Three blocks from his apartment, the noise began.
DaHuang pushed his way through crowds he could not see the end of. Bodies jostled him side to side and smoke began to fill the air. As he forced his way through another mass of bodies, he fell out the other side into a police barricade, only to be shoved back into the crowd behind him.
“Stay back, sir. No one goes past until we say.”
“But I need to get home! My building is just around that corner. 17386 Chengdong street.”
While much of Neo-Seoul had adopted the look of glass, steel, and carbon-fiber, Ko-Ri sought an earthlier style. Wood and cement were the primary materials, with ancient, cast-iron legs for their worn-down tabletops. Contrastingly, paper-thin digital menus sported a modern sleek design and the kitchen was outfitted with the latest inductive stovetops. DaHuang had been in Neo-Seoul for almost two months and been coming to Ko-Ri regularly.
DaHuang worked his way through his kimchi. He sat wearing an outfit of synthetic grayscale, contrasted by a traditional navy blazer complete with brass buttons. The outdated jacket had a single pin on the lapel: a QR code that allowed those with the Brainstorm chip implant to see the golden silhouette of a traditional dragon inlaid on the back with its tail swinging as it dangled. Occasionally, the dragon would snake around his arms and across his chest before returning to its home. The fusion of old and new, like yin and yang; such balance brought peace, his grandmother had said.
Finished with his meal, he looked to the clock his mind projected on the wall and saw that it was 13:05. His meeting with Choi was in twenty-five minutes! The executive had taken notice of DaHuang’s product and his efforts to introduce it in Korea; they wanted to negotiate a deal. DaHuang swiped his hand across the table’s sensor to pay and left the restaurant, briefcases in hand; one leather, one carbon-fiber.
Outside, skyscrapers towered above him and the streets before him led to the Hives. Drones whirred through the air alongside glass tubes snaking through the sky. Turning the corner, DaHuang’s gaze pointed the opposite direction. Tens of kilometers away, “ChoiTech” stood in thick blue atop an eighty-story monstrosity. Ready as he could be, DaHuang pressed the button on the handle of his carbon-fiber briefcase, allowing it to fold out into his hoverbike, the latest model. It cost a pretty penny, but when you found an overnight success of a startup you could afford occasional luxuries. Clipping his leather briefcase to the back of the bike, DaHuang rose to fight the city’s drone traffic as he flew towards the glowing blue letters.
The time was 15:27, according to the soft-purple gas that had arranged itself into the numbers inside wall’s glass panel. DaHuang Pyo was done with this ridiculous meeting. He could not just leave in the middle of discussion, however; one did not insult the one percent of Neo-Seoul. The economics in his home country of Japan may have been a continuous curve, but the wealth gap in Korea gave people like Choi power no one wanted to experience on the receiving end.
The upper floors served as the home of Choi Joon-ki, CEO of ChoiTech. Everyone had their own aesthetic, and anyone could achieve it easily thanks to Brainstorm’s augmented reality. But there was no AR here. Neo-Seoul’s rich couldn’t be happy with such trivial matters as self-expression; they had to bring their desires to life.
Opaque objects had digital readouts glowing as if from beneath the surface, responsive to touch. A coy-pond shaped its waterfall into twisting vines, or sometimes the hexagonal logo of ChoiTech. Simple objects such as a wooden table surface became exquisite when one saw the grain of the wood painted a picture. Once past the initial visual impression, DaHuang realized he could smell the scent of lavender, but sickeningly sweeter. It did not come in and out of his senses like a natural odor cloud would; it simply was.
More appalling to him than the ostentatious office was the meeting itself. Their correspondence up until this point had been frustratingly vague. Two years ago, DaHuang’s company had released Project Misa: an artificial intelligence playing the part of personal therapist, personified and displayed to users by the Brainstorm chip. He had intended to reshape lives with his work, but Japanese and American markets had responded to it as a toy. Waifu was the term they used. It sickened DaHuang, and he had come to Korea to see Project Misa presented as it was intended. All the help he could get was welcome.
Now that they were together, though, Choi made their desire clear; not partnership, but a buyout. Choi wanted to take DaHuang’s work away and do with it exactly what he was here to prevent. That infuriated him.
“I’m sorry,” DaHuang stated for the third time, “but I am not interested in parting with my work.”
Choi Joon-ki simply reclined his mammoth of a chair, finger idly twisting the ends of the bandana at their neck. “Please,” they replied smoothly, “be reasonable, Mr. Da—”
“Doctor,” he corrected.
“Doctor DaHuang. With the resources at my disposal, I can assure your product becomes the best it can be.”
“And I’ve assured you,” DaHuang replied, “that I believe you and I have different visions for the future of my company. And so, I must decline your generous offer.”
“Think about it,” Choi warned. “This kind of offer isn’t possible anywhere else. A lot of power resides in this city, it would be beneficial to be on the right side of it.”
DaHuang looked Choi in the eye for a long moment before standing to button his blazer, dragon’s tongue coiled around the top button. “I’m afraid it is of greater value to me to continue having a say in my work. I apologize for wasting your time.” He gave them a shallow, but lengthy bow before moving to leave. Choi simply sat there, frowning for the first time all day.
As DaHuang reached the exit, he noticed his own projected clock next to the room’s esoteric one. DaHuang called to Choi as he left. “Your clock is two minutes slow.”
Three blocks from his apartment, the noise began.
DaHuang pushed his way through crowds he could not see the end of. Bodies jostled him side to side and smoke began to fill the air. As he forced his way through another mass of bodies, he fell out the other side into a police barricade, only to be shoved back into the crowd behind him.
“Stay back, sir. No one goes past until we say.”
“But I need to get home! My building is just around that corner. 17386 Chengdong street.”
The officers exchanged a glance.
“Sir, your building is burning down.”